For Love or Money Read online

  He nods. “I think it’ll be a highlight for the rest of my schooling here.” He leans in with Nick, hesitating but then just says what’s on his mind. “Did you really sleep with Danny’s mom?”

  I shake my head.

  His face loses some of the zest.

  I beam when I mutter, “But Andy did.”

  Jackson winces. “Oh shit. That's so much worse. He’s such an ass bandit.”

  I nod past the feelings of nausea I have thinking about him with Lana. “Yeah.” I can’t talk about this. Standing and stretching my aching body, I hold my beer up. “Night boys!”

  Everyone in the locker room cheers and drinks as I head for the door.

  “Party tonight, Holland. Don’t forget!”

  I wave back at them as I enter the corridor.

  She’s standing in the hall, almost exactly where I met her the first time. Only instead of a spacey, stoned look, she is grinning from ear to ear. As I get closer, her nose wrinkles. “You got beat up!”

  I nod. “Yeah. But I won so it was worth it.” I wink and wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her into me and smelling her hair.

  “What started the fight?”

  I don't want to tell her so I shrug and tell her what ended it. “I told the captain of Yale that I screwed his mom in Martha’s Vineyard last summer.”

  She pauses. “Did you?”

  I wrinkle my nose, recalling what she looked like. “No. Andy got drunk, realized who she was and did her, a couple times. It was a little badass, even for Andy who never seems to surprise me much.”

  “Let’s not do the whole ‘Andy’ talk again.” She steps up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips against my cheek. “We have a show to win. Are you ready for LA?”

  I nod and press my face into the kiss. “I am, but I was sort of hoping you were going to tie me up and tell me what a bad boy I’ve been.”

  Her face lowers with a throaty chuckle.

  I have to ask. “Did you ever sleep with Danny Anderson?”

  Her eyes narrow, not angry but thinking. She shakes her head but then her eyes widen. “Oh, snap. The guy from Yale?”

  My heart sinks a little.

  She laughs. “No. He tried but when he undid his pants in the bathroom at the club in Miami, I left.” She holds her pinky finger in the air. “I have standards and he didn’t meet them.”

  I kiss the side of her head, hating that she even came close, but neither of us has a pair of wings and at least she had sex for fun and not because she needed tuition. If anything, we match perfectly.

  I look down, grimacing. “Wanna just have the talk and get it out in the open?”

  She scowls. “What talk?”

  I swallow, worrying more about her numbers than mine. “THE talk. The ‘how many and who’ talk?”

  She pulls back. “You want to know?” She looks like I asked how much she weighs, only I think she’d tell me that number without even blinking.

  “No. I don’t want to know, but I think because a thousand people say they have had sex with you, I need to know.”

  She takes my hand in hers and pulls me to a park, the one I found her crying in. She sits on the picnic table and looks out at the pond. I have a horrid feeling she’s been counting in her silence.

  “Twenty-three—four people. Half are celebrities so I can’t say. Nine live in Europe so it wouldn’t matter to you.” She turns and smiles, but I can see the pain in her eyes. “I had a crazy summer last year. We took home a different guy every weekend.”

  “You and Nance Hensley?”

  Her cheeks burn. “Twenty-five.”

  I laugh. “Lesbian college stories? When we’re laying in bed later, if you need to rehash any of those stories, I’m willing to take one for the team and be your therapist.”

  She shoves me. “NO! God. I can’t do girls. I tried once, it lasted thirty seconds and ended with a Korean chick telling me I was a dead lay, in Korean.” She swallows. “The worst two were a guy in Vancouver, outside of a rave—I needed a ride and so did he. It’s as close to prostitution as I have come. And of course the very worst, Nance’s dad, freshman year. Beyond that they were all my age and crazy, drugged-out nights.” She turns and faces me. “Apart from Chad and Andy. I’ve maintained Andy as my booty call for all four years here.”

  “So none of the guys at this school except me, Chad, and Andy?”

  She nods. “I don’t like to shit where I eat. You know?”

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t even want to know what that means to you in this context. And you picked up Weaver and Nick that night—you were going to do them? Or me?”

  “I dumped Chad and needed a new booty call. And Weaver looked all angry. I like distant guys.” She sighs, “So if you want to not do this, because my numbers are so high, and people constantly lie about having sex with me and whatever, it’s cool. I understand.”

  “Fifty-eight.”

  Her head snaps around. “WHAT?”

  It doesn’t even shame me a little. “I only got paid for it by one lady, Andy’s mom.”

  “You are a serious slut, my friend.”

  “Hey, I thought we weren’t doing the whole slut shaming.”

  “Yeah, well that’s before I knew you were over halfway to a hundred!”

  She makes me chuckle. “I played in a band in a bar in Nashville for a whole summer before I came here and was a soccer player for my three years.”

  She points. “Everyone said you just let them suck you off. The girls all say you’re kind of boring.”

  My eyes sparkle. “I don’t like to shit where I eat either.”

  She shoves me. “Jackass.”

  “Away games, bars, Andy’s mom, you, couple waitresses. It adds up.”

  “You keep count?”

  I start to undo my belt. “I have notches if you wanna see—”

  She shoves me again. “No. Gross.”

  “I’m kidding. I know the number because Shane and I were talking about it the other day. We got drunk and counted. You don’t even want to know Andy’s number.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know Andy’s number. He’s more proud of that than how many cars he owns. We have a clinic date every couple months that we maintain and it’s always safe sex.”

  I grin, feeling lightheaded and nauseated, but really relieved this part of the conversation is over. “Well, why don’t we go do a clinic date together and start fresh, clean slate?”

  “And never speak of this again?”

  I nod, holding my pinky out. She scowls at it. “Why are you bringing Danny Anderson’s penis into this?”

  I laugh. “Pinky swears. My sister, Barb, always makes me pinky swear. I thought it was sort of a girl thing.”

  She gives me a look like I have three heads. “I was raised by dudes, so I don’t know what you’re talking about. But let’s just agree, clinic for the stuff no one wants to talk about, and this picnic table will be our no-no spot. We will never come back here again and never have this conversation again!”

  I nod, lowering my pinky. “I swear. Kill it with fire.”

  She pulls her phone out and dials. “Hi there. It’s Lana Webber. I need to make an appointment.”

  My insides burn but I know it’ll go away. We both just need to adjust to the feeling of wanting to be with someone for more than a couple nights.

  There’s also the sad fact I’m excited her tally of ex lovers is half mine.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Snugglefuck

  Lana

  His sad face is killing me but my panic attack is going to be much worse if I don’t get away from him. The whole sex talk has killed my mojo and made me rethink this sleeping together too quickly even more.

  “Just stay. We don’t have to have sex again. We can snugglefuck. It’s not the same thing at all.”

  I don’t even laugh, even though snugglefuck is the second weirdest thing I have heard today. The first being fwerking, in a text from my friend back home who finally decide
d to respond to my text from a month ago. Eventually, the English language will be completely destroyed. I’m not even an English major and fwerking bugs me. As do friends who take a month to answer texts. I made a note in my phone’s calendar to respond to her text in a month—‘cause I am still a petty whore when I want to be.

  “Just stay.” He interrupts my random thought process as he pulls his jeans and shirt off, revealing he’s still in his soccer uniform.

  Oh shit!

  Remembering how badly I don’t want to be the same predictable girl as I always am, I back away slowly, shaking my head. I blurt the first thing that comes to mind, “Congratulations again on winning, and thanks for asking me to come to the game. It was weird to see both teams just attack like that. Kind of random. Okay then.”

  Should I thank him for the mind-blowing sex?

  No, better not.

  Just act cool.

  “You’re acting kind of weird.” He cocks an eyebrow, looking sweaty and dirty in all the right ways. The cut above his eyebrow and swollen cheek reminds me, and my vagina, of the boxer I casually screwed in Germany for two weeks last summer. It’s not doing wonders for my self-control or my ability to open the door.

  I want to rub my body against his and lick the sweat off. I blush and mutter like a moron, “What? No. I just—uh. I have some things to do. Like study and—important stuff.”

  Like not screw you!

  Yikes.

  He scratches his head gingerly. “You don’t have to be polite and sweet. Just be you. It actually makes me uncomfortable when you’re too nice, it feels phony. I like you better snarky. I can’t even lie. The sarcastic side of you is sexy as hell. The sexual confidence you have is like a drug.”

  Oh fuck.

  I step back, gripping the doorknob as visions of him fucking me like an animal on the bed behind him haunt me.

  He is a bad boy and I am just the kind of girl he needs to avoid. We are like fire and gasoline.

  He’s the sexiest gasoline ever. EVER!

  His dark-blond hair is tussled everywhere, coated in a bit of dirt and sweat. I think I even see some blood in it, all of which I find alarmingly attractive. His jersey is soaked and his shorts are actually torn. I want to do bad things to him, make him scream—a lot. I bite my lip, imagining it’s his meaty bicep in my teeth.

  He gives me a sexy grin and pulls his jersey off, sending the scent of his sweat and deodorant across the small space. I think I actually moan aloud. One of us does and when he chuckles and shakes his head, I have to assume it was me.

  His body isn’t something I’ve really gotten to appreciate yet. I think I had a little PTSD in the shower after we had sex—obviously any girl would have. It was intense and erotic and really filthy. I smile thinking about it, his hot and seedy words in my ear as he double penetrated me.

  Oh God.

  I’m getting wet thinking about it, clenching my thighs together and pretending I don’t feel the pulsating between my legs.

  A blush of sweat bursts across my upper lip, and I want desperately to leave the room but my eyes can’t tear from his torso. He has odd tats everywhere, random ones. There’s a scripture-like word along his side and something under his arm that looks like Sanskrit. He has a symbol on his left pec that looks Japanese and a giant spider on his left shoulder. Its legs are the part you can see creeping out the top of his neckline if he’s in a tee shirt. I’ve often wondered what it was. His stomach has a small eight ball that says yes on it, like it’s telling him his fortune, and there’s another word in a language I don’t recognize dipping into his shorts. There are seven tats altogether.

  He’s so clean-cut and sculpted, it’s almost weird to see the tattoos, but when I think about the fact he was a gigolo and he works a stage and audience like Lochlan Barlow, it makes sense. He knows he’s beautiful, but he’s the worst kind of badass. He’s the unsuspecting kind. He doesn’t talk, he just does.

  Damn, that’s hot.

  He smiles, lowering his gaze to where my eyes are stuck on the word going in his shorts.

  I turn the knob and run from the room like the spider on his shoulder has come to life.

  I run until I’m ready to puke. I need a better fitness level. No one my age is this out of shape. I saw a chubby girl running when I was going to art history the other day. She had to be two hundred pounds and was running like she was chasing the ice cream truck.

  Bitch could have outrun me easily.

  I don’t look back, positive he’s running after me. I hear my name but make my legs keep moving.

  “Lana!” he catches me easily, regardless of having just played a hard-ass game of soccer. “What are you doing?” he spins me around.

  His hands squeeze my arms, making me uncomfortable. The whole thing is making me miserable. I don’t have an answer beyond the truth. I’m too horny and tripped-out by him to lie so I just say what I’m thinking, “I don’t want to be like this.”

  “Like what? Mopey and sad? ‘Cause I have a cure for what ails you.”

  A halfhearted smile pushes its way across my lips. “No.” I force myself to look into his eyes. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this—jump right in your bed and be the forgone conclusion I always am.” He opens his mouth, but I put my hand across it, trying not to notice how soft and delectable his lips are. “You know, even my friends think I overreacted last month with that guy in my room, fucking my foot. They think I deserved it ‘cause I’m known for being easy and freaky. Everyone here knows about me and Andy, and I’m certain he’s embellished a little. You know how many guys I have heard apparently fucked me? Dozens, which isn’t even close to possible. And they all think that I had it coming.”

  He swallows hard and I see guilt in his eyes.

  I step back, lowering my hand. “See. You thought it too. The worst part of that is, I don’t even blame you. You know what has taken me a month to say aloud?”

  He shakes his head, looking scared of the melt down I’m about to have. I sigh, not wanting to be this girl. I am not this girl.

  He reaches for my hand, pulling it up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss into my skin. “What has it taken you a month to say?”

  “That I didn’t deserve it. That it didn’t matter that I’m casual about sex—he had no right. And because of the whole sneaking in my room and touching me when I was sleeping, I lost something. I don’t know if I want that thing back. Maybe losing it was good, because I just don’t see it as all the same anymore. Casual sex is fun, and I don’t regret the way I’ve been, I just don’t want to be that girl anymore. I don’t want something horrible to happen to me and have to suffer through it and then have the whole world laugh and say I deserved it. The papers might not see it, but I’m a human being, and I have feelings, and I don’t want to be a joke anymore.” I pull my hand from his and walk away.

  “Why are you punishing us if we are good together?”

  I look back. “I’m not. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at me.” I trek back to my dorm and slump onto the bed, looking up at the ceiling. It’s moments exactly like this one that I wish my mom were alive. She would probably stroke my hair and tell me that it doesn’t matter, and in a year it will matter even less. She would tell me that the world would find someone else to talk about, if I didn’t keep making there be something to talk about.

  It’s what my dad said the last time, when I got deported with my hands zip tied behind my back like a criminal.

  My phone vibrates, drawing my eyes to see a text from Andy asking me to meet him.

  I turn my phone off and pull my pillow over my face.

  I’m nearly asleep when I wake to a knock.

  Andy!

  He’s such a creeper sometimes.

  I get up and answer the door, frowning when I see James. He’s clean and holding a bouquet of lilies and the Visa I gave him. “I got these for you and I want to give this back to you.”

  I take the Visa and run my fingers across the gold letters that say We
bber Records. “Did you buy the flowers with it?”

  He chuckles. “No. Jesus. I have more tact than that. I figured even if we aren’t going to do this, we are still partners. And if me and you still have a deal, I don’t need to worry about the tuition for next year. I have some savings that was for next year, I can live off that for the summer.” He pushes the flowers closer to me. “But I brought you these because I want you to know that I did think you were a forgone conclusion, but that’s not why I had sex with you.”

  I look up as a guy walks by, snickering at James. I roll my eyes and drag him inside and close the door as he keeps nattering on, “I can have sex with any girl at this school.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “You think so?”

  He nods. He’s being sincere. “Yeah. I do. Guys with tats who sing and win soccer games get laid. That’s also a forgone conclusion. But I don’t want to get laid. I want to be with you.”

  I laugh.

  “I mean—shit—this is getting messed up in my head and my mouth.” He steps closer, looking down on me, lifting my chin. “I knew we would have sex. We both like sex and seem to have a comfort level with our bodies that’s not uncommon in people who have a lot of sex. I like to fuck, and what happens during, I don’t want to talk about it later. Shit—I’m nattering. See, even talking about it now is making me uncomfortable.” He shakes his head. “You’re making me crazy. You always have. I’ve had that violin for four years, and in my head I imagined a thousand different ways I would give it back to you. I never imagined it the way it happened, but that’s because I don’t have the imagination to come up with something so amazing. So far I love the story of us. It suits us. It’s crazy and sad and unbelievable, and uplifting in the weirdest ways. It makes me feel more alive.”

  I take the flowers from his hands and lift them to my face, smelling them but staring up at him.

  He stops looking stressed and sighs. “You are right. You didn’t deserve what happened to you, and if I ever find out who did it, I will kill them. I might take you up on the thugs so I don’t have to go to prison—I don’t want street cred. But no matter how it goes down, that shit rat is going to pay for what he did to you. And no matter what changes between us, I will always hate the thoughts I had when I heard what occurred. I hate that I didn’t think it was real and that it happened to you.”